


one final act

by castellowrites



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Goodbyes, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Theatre, Thespian!Shiro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8387770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castellowrites/pseuds/castellowrites
Summary: This is how he believes he wants it to be – no drama, no sentiment, no hassles, and especially no goodbyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this plotbunny started off with this [ drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8141618/chapters/19147042) and i'm just not done inflicting pain on you all so  
> jk, i'm really just a sap who thinks about angst a lot when i'm not writing fluff  
> it's already 1AM so i'm going to leave this unbeta'd... for now
> 
> anyways, thank you so much for clicking on this! also i would like to apologize in advance if this hurts too much.  
> additional warning: too much sap

The hallway leading to the theater room is dark and cold, dimly lit only by boxes of caged moonlight pouring in through the windows. Pictures of generations of thespians before him are hung on the walls, captured moments of youth and creativity immortalized to spark inspiration and admiration in the hearts of the young.  Tomorrow, after the ceremony, his face will be on this wall of glory, one final imprint to leave in the university he has come to love as a second home.

In the silence, his rhythmic footsteps are louder than the distant bouts of drunken laughter and colorful stories exchanged in the room two floors above his head, his heels clicking on the polished wood a song attuned to his heartbeat. He had thought that this moment would make him nervous, nauseated, even, but where there had been a storm in the pit of his stomach and a raging squall within his mind, there is only a quiet serenity, a sense of contentment and acceptance only isolation can provide.

This is how he believes he wants it to be – no drama, no sentiment, no hassles, and especially no goodbyes – he can forgive himself later for leaving right after his last performance as a college senior. He only hopes that the others can find a way to forgive him for wordlessly leaving the day before graduation.

It was a big choice, one that had weighed on his mind for the last couple of months, and yet in the end, he knew he was going. New York is teeming with endless possibilities, where opportunities abound and creativity flourishes, where new memories are waiting to be experienced, where people fall in love like in the movies.

Maybe in New York, he can forget. Maybe he can begin to heal.

Maybe unlike in here, he can find a reason to stay.

The double oak doors of the theater room creak open at the soft push of his palms. Moonlight gushes into the dark hall like a silent tidal wave over the descending rows of cushioned seats, sweeps over the lush carpet like a mother’s whisper. Shiro takes a moment to stand there in the entrance, lets his eyes scope the entirety of the room. The background they had all painted together as a club remains on the stage while props and discarded confetti decorate the floorboards. They’re supposed to dismantle the backdrops together for one final semi-ceremonial gathering and farewell, and he almost regrets leaving early.

Shiro walks down the carpeted aisle, his long shadow becoming shorter with each step closer to the stage. He tries not to be too sentimental. He fails, yet he goes on, walks over to the tiny room backstage.

Moonlight filters inside the cramped space filled with stage props and costumes hung on a couple of metal racks. He thinks that’s the one constant thing wherever he goes; he can see the same moon from anywhere, the one loyal companion in all his travels. He’s okay with that.

He’s okay with that, except it also reminds him of a lot of nights spent dreaming aloud about reaching the sky and navigating through balls of light, of stargazing and trying to communicate with the people of the moon, of fabricated conversations with extraterrestrial beings he had shared with no one but Keith.

 _Keith_.

Everything goes back to Keith.

Memories of the orphanage, of unexpected yet happy reunions, of secretly whispered words of encouragement and a hand on his shoulder, of the reason he has to leave – it all circles back to Keith.

Shiro swallows hard, swallows the lump forming in his throat like the myriad of thoughts and feelings he’s been wanting to express but couldn’t, forces them back deep inside himself and hopes they don’t resurface any time soon. His sigh comes out heavy and audible, the only sound he’s allowed himself to make since leaving the party, as he bends down to pull a big duffel bag and backpack hidden under the pile of discarded props on the floor. Gotta act fast, gotta act _now_ before regret steps in. No drama, no sentiment, no hassles, no goodbyes –

“Shiro?”

He freezes. He didn’t even hear anyone following to sneak up on him.

“What are you doing here?” Keith asks, his voice quiet and his eyes on the bag.

Shiro sighs yet again, this time slowly, much less audibly. Of course – since their days in the orphanage, Keith has learned to move around silently for the evenings they sneaked out after curfew to view the distant lights up on the roof.

“You’re supposed to be upstairs enjoying the party,” Shiro finally says as he slings the backpack over one shoulder, a smile plastered on his face. Now, he is an actor; now he sells deceit.

“I saw you sneak out, thought you’d be climbing up to the roof,” Keith says, shuffling on his feet.

 _Why are you always the first one to notice? Why are your eyes so quick to follow me?_ Shiro wants to wonder aloud. After all, that was how they had begun their secret after-curfew escapades. Instead, he bottles those words up and throws them away in a dark place inside him, like the thousand unsent letters and notes he has written to Keith every night for the past ten years. He’s too hopeless, too powerless, too big of a coward to stop acting.

“I’m not. You should go back up now,” Shiro says, his words short and his voice low as he tries not to sound like anything he truly feels. _Go back up and have fun. Go back up to your boyfriend._

Keith silently regards him in the pale moonlight, his eyebrows furrowed in apparent confusion. His eyes are studying the bulky duffel bag like an offending article of sorts, reminding Shiro of the time the Sister had told Keith he was going to be adopted, and the expression he’d made when he realized adoption meant separation for them both. Now he’s standing by the door to the theater hall with the exact same eyes, standing between Shiro and his quiet speedy exit.

_Why does it have to be Keith?_

Finally, he speaks.

“You’re not going back up with me.”

It’s not a question, but a statement, a realization.

Hearing Keith say it makes the truth infinitely louder, stinging him like a million tiny pinpricks all over his body. The back of his eyes burn, his mouth feels dry, his heart is hammering inside his chest like a ticking time bomb ready to explode with his love for Keith, kept too long in silence that hurt more than actually leaving. He’s breaking, his every erected wall is crumbling. It’s not fair, it just isn’t, why does it have to be him, why can’t anything be easy at all why why why

“Shiro,” Keith’s voice cracks at the last syllable yet he stands firm, takes a small step forward. It’s only a name but it’s also a disguised plea, a demand for answers that ring loud in Shiro’s ears.

“Keith, you should really go back,” Shiro says, his throat failing to cooperate with him that he chokes on his words when he gets to the middle. He only notices it now, but the world has gone too quiet, cruelly intent on listening to the sound of something falling apart. “ _Go back_.”

“I thought we were going to visit the orphanage again this summer,” Keith says as he takes another step closer. He reaches the soft pool of light and bathes in the heavenly glow, his eyes glassy with slivers of reflected moon beams dancing in them. Shiro remembers getting lost a little more than he should in those eyes, and remembers how that isn’t something he should be holding on to, not when he’s leaving those behind.

“We’ll still do that,” Shiro says. “Maybe when I get back.”

“From where? And when?” Keith’s voice is rising as he gravitates closer to Shiro, eyes wild in his demand for answers. His shoulders are trembling, his fists are shaking. _Please_ , Shiro thinks, _please don’t be like this. Not right now_.

“I don’t know.” Shiro’s voice is barely above a whisper, his head hung low. It’s his most honest answer, and at the same time it betrays nothing so that Keith can run after him, if he ever does.

“You never told me anything,” Keith says, his voice cracking. “I thought we were family, Shiro. I thought we can tell each other everything.”

 _Not everything_ , Shiro thinks but doesn’t say out loud _. You can go with Hunter to the orphanage. Boyfriends are family too, right?_

“I don’t understand,” Keith continues when Shiro doesn’t reply. “I mean, you’re two years ahead of me and I know I can’t possibly ask you to wait until I graduate but I never thought you’d leave like this.”

Keith is a foot away now, his arms moving wildly at his sides in uncontained agitation. Shiro looks away, unable to brave looking at the bright droplets of reflected light streaming down Keith’s face. No drama, no sentiment, no hassles, no goodbyes – no facing Keith one last time.

He doesn’t want to walk away with this memory lingering at the back of his mind.

“This isn’t that kind of goodbye, Keith.” He tries because it’s the only thing he can do. He tries because he hopes it’s the easy way out of this – one last act to end it once and for all.

“Don’t lie to me, Shiro,” Keith says. “If it wasn’t, then you would have said something.”

Shiro sighs in exasperation but he doesn’t argue; Keith may be dense when it comes to Shiro’s feelings, but apart from that he can read Shiro pretty well.

“Keith—”

 “I thought you said you wanted to work somewhere near campus,” Keith says, his fists weakly finding their marks on Shiro’s broad chest. “You said maybe you would work in the Theater Department here, or maybe even fail a grade so that we can meet halfway.”

“You remember those things?” Shiro chuckles bitterly despite it all; he had mentioned those plans to Keith around a year ago. He drops the duffel bag and lets his hands find Keith’s wrists, feel his pulse. Nothing but this – he swears this is the only thing he’ll allow tonight. Nothing else to bring with him to New York, just this, to feel his whole world in his hands for one quiet moment.

“I remember a lot of things,” Keith says, sobering up, letting his fists sag into the warmth of Shiro’s chest. His eyes are cast on their melded shadows on the floor. “I think about the roof of the orphanage, about the Dark Lord Zarkon and his butter-loving minion Sendak trying to destroy us from their base in the moon. I remember the stars you named after each letter of my name, the scar you got from getting me down from that tall tree in the yard, and the day you asked me to be your best friend. I remember getting adopted, leaving and walking around not really knowing what to do, then finding you again here.”

Keith’s hands are shaking as they take fistfuls of Shiro’s shirt. _Don’t hold on to me like that_ , Shiro wants to say, but there’s a lump in his throat and it’s interfering with his ability to speak.

“There’s a lot of you in my memories, Shiro,” Keith half-whispers, as if he’s dropping the biggest secret in his life. He looks up, catches Shiro’s gaze the way Shiro had once hoped he’ll catch his heart.

“There’s always you,” he says and it’s all unfair it’s just not fair it’s all too cruel because these are words Shiro has always wanted to hear and these are words that just tear him apart.

Shiro breaks, everything breaks, nothing is fine and it’s the most beautiful and painful thing in the world to just stand here with Keith in the moonlight.

There’s nothing he blames for it but gravity – gravity making him fall hard for Keith, gravity from the weight of Keith’s stare pulling him in closer closer and closer until there’s warmth like the sun and softness of flower petals and someone else’s hot tears melting with his own.

It’s sudden, unplanned – a mistake.

Keith’s shocked expression is the signal that should tell him it’s unwarranted, unwelcome, but he doesn’t stop – he _can’t_ stop.

He closes his eyes, blocks out the image of Keith’s surprised expression as he steals a kiss. Just this one mistake, let him have this one last mistake of dropping his act, let him be stupid and honest and just be openly in love with someone else’s boyfriend.

Just this once.

He lets his hands fly up to cradle the curve of Keith’s jaw, kneads his fingers softly on his moist cheeks. He’ll regret this, he knows, and he most definitely deserves a punch to the gut for just wanting to taste Keith’s lips, but until Keith pushes him away, he’s going to commit this crime. After all, there will be no shameful days to avoid after he disappears.

Except Keith doesn’t push him away.

He feels Keith close his eyes, his eyelashes fluttering over Shiro’s skin like soft butterfly wings. Calloused hands find the back of Shiro’s head, slender candle-like fingers tug at the short tufts of his hair, surprising Shiro in the most pleasant way. Their lips are hungry for lost time and missed opportunities, their tongues melting into their own rhythmic dance like old lovers.

Shiro lets his hands wander and get lost in the soft richness of Keith’s hair, memorizes the silky sensation on his skin. He loves the way Keith tastes in his mouth and in his hands, loves how their bodies fit against each other like complementing jagged pieces of glass. Shiro tilts his head to deepen the kiss, catches Keith’s every gasp and moan in his hot mouth.

Without needing words, they both move in unison; Keith pulling Shiro backward, Shiro gently pushing him back against a wall where even the moon can’t angle itself right to watch them sin. Keith actively moans into his parted lips as Shiro begins to roll his hips against him in blatant urgency, filling the room with sounds of ragged breathing and unsuppressed confessions of love in the form of profusely whispering Keith’s name like a mantra –

Just how is one capable of silencing a storm that’s been unleashed?

And yet it happens – like the hand that always falls a few inches short to keep someone from turning away, like the deafening sound of an approaching train when you tell them not to leave you, like the unsynchronized timing of two people supposed to be destined for the perfect love – _something_ always gets in the way.

Keith’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and just like that, it’s over.

They both freeze, swollen lips hovering over the other, hot rapid short breaths burning their skins like tears. Keith’s phone continues to buzz, rings louder than the pounding in Shiro’s chest and the ringing in his ears, a sound that pierces through the still night like razor sharp icicles.

They’re both silent, the weight of what they’d done finally settling over them like a cloud, the reality of their relationship both a blessing and a curse; a miracle worth nothing because Shiro is still leaving, and Keith still belongs to someone else.

It’s over.

Shiro pulls away first.

Kissing Keith felt like levitating, and pulling back feels like drowning with a ball chained to his feet –he’s always been drowning, yet the only difference is he now knows how flying feels like, and it’s painfully tantalizing knowing that and actively preventing yourself from flying.

Now they’re both scarred, and _he_ let it happen.

Shiro takes a couple of steps back. Keith looks dazzlingly beautiful with his hair up in all directions like that, with his mouth moist and swollen from kissing, and he thinks _he_ did all that – he’s the reason Keith is breathless, speechless.

And hurting.

Shiro swallows, it’s over it’s over it’s over.

He turns his back to Keith, walks back into the pool of light and picks up his duffel bag. For some reason, it feels a lot heavier than ten minutes ago. He hears Keith clear his throat, fish his phone out of his pocket. His voice still cracks when he speaks.

“Babe.”

Shiro should leave. Why can’t he move any faster?

“No, I’m fine I just – went to take a leak.”

Shiro wordlessly turns back towards the door. There’s nothing for him here, he reminds himself. Nothing.

“No, I think I'm done for the night,” Keith says, his eyes concealed by the fringes of his long dark hair. Shiro continues to walk, each step feeling like treading through quicksand. He’s drowning drowning drowning.

Shiro’s almost past the door when a hand grabs on to his bicep. He doesn’t turn to look, fights hard _not_ to look.

“Okay,” Keith says, still talking on the phone. He pauses for a beat, whether it’s to listen to Hunter on the other line, or to contemplate on what to say next. His voice is much sober, much quieter when he finally speaks:

“… Thank you.”

He lets go.

It’s over.

It’s over it’s over it’s over.

Shiro tries not to listen to Keith’s muffled sobs as he walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY at the last minute, i changed keith's last words to shiro  
> he was supposed to say 'i love you' but that just seems like it would hurt a lot more so NO  
> uuuggh it's a mental masochist's life for me


	2. Chapter 2

Had it not been for Pidge’s constant invitations, Keith doubts he would have returned to the theater hall any sooner.

The curtained walls, the blinding stage lights, the wide space where voices and feelings resound – all echo with imprints of the past. He thinks he’s imagining it, but Shiro’s everywhere in the room – up on the batten fixing a PAR lamp, peeking from behind an erected stage background, or walking down the aisle yelling orders to new Theater Club members.

He’s not here, but it was all real.

He’s not here, and Keith feels he’s slowly detaching himself from what’s real.

Keith doesn’t know how, but he survives. Summer has passed in a massive blur of long empty days dredged together, of countless phone calls and emails asking him about Shiro’s whereabouts. Of course, everyone is more surprised about Keith not having any answers than Shiro disappearing. Keith doesn’t blame them, he’s quite surprised himself.

It’s a lie if he says he hasn’t tried to contact his best friend in any way – he has, except he’s grown tired of listening to the mechanic voice of someone saying “ _This number cannot be reached. Please try and call later_ ,” over and over, as if reminding him of the emptiness in his heart and the phantom touch of a hand on his shoulder. He’s grown tired of staring at his inbox full of questions he’s itching to ask himself _– Where is he and why didn’t he tell anyone he was leaving? Is he coming back? Why isn’t he answering our calls or emails? –_ questions that only remind him of how much he doesn’t know, how much he’s let slip from his fingers.

“Hey.” It’s Pidge’s voice that snaps him out of his reverie. “Glad you could make it after all.”

“Hey,” Keith replies, but that’s all he’s got. He clears his throat and looks back at the actors rehearsing down on the stage. Based on the script, he can tell it’s a tragic romance.

Keith is grateful she doesn’t ask him the usual courtesies he’s grown sick of hearing – _How have you been? You doing okay?_ He knows people mean well, but he’s done with making others feel better about themselves for having asked him about his well-being, which he thinks should be pretty obvious to anyone who has known him and Shiro.

“What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“The acting,” Pidge says, sitting on an empty chair beside him. Keith glances at her, remembers that this autumn’s play was co-written by Pidge and a senior. It takes him a moment before he answers.

“They’re pretty great, actually,” he says, shifting in his seat. He hasn’t talked about acting for quite a while now. “The eyes tell me more than what the dialogue says. They’re doing a good job communicating the emotions to the audience.”

It’s Pidge’s turn to go silent. They continue to stare at the club members milling about fixing stage decorations or repainting the props, at the actors and director yelling feedback through a rolled up magazine.

“Thanks,” she finally says after a few ticks. “That’s also what I have been thinking.”

“They just look so natural down there, it’s amazing,” Keith says, nodding his head.

There’s a split second of hesitation before Pidge’s next reply. Her voice is soft and quiet, as if to drop a long held secret, when she speaks:

“The last time I saw that kind of raw honesty reflected in the eyes was between you and Shiro, except your stares were never in synch.”

_Shiro._

The sound of his name is too loud, too riddled with too many _what if_ s, _could have been_ s. too many broken promises and lost chances.

“What?” Keith’s voice sounds brittle, like how he’s been feeling for quite a while.”

Pidge turns to him, stares him squarely with her big round eyes.

“You’ve broken it off with Hunter already, right?”

Keith swallows, remembers that one night three months ago he’d rather forget. Too many emotions spiraling out of control, too many words spilled like overflowing ink, tainting everything in one big ugly blotch. He’d been unfair, he’d been cold, but nothing ever felt right anymore when Shiro’s lips and hands and smile disappeared out of reach.

Keith nods, his mouth and throat dry and devoid of words.

“But when you hurt, you’re not thinking of him. You think of someone else.”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t have to because it’s not a question at all, it’s a statement, a cold hard truth that rings loudly in his hears and inside his ribcage. He’s known it all along for a long time, has known how large a chunk of himself Shiro took with him when he left because now he is in no way complete – something’s always missing, there’s always a ghost screaming regret guilt cowardice into his ears—

The teardrop leaves a trail of warmth on his cheek as it falls, pulled down by gravity and the heaviness of its own self. The room suddenly closes in on him, leaving no room for air, making him feel nauseous and dizzy and he just needs to get out of here fast—

He’s outside, the sun is on his eyes and face and hands as he fumbles down the stone steps and away from the building. He makes a wild dash until his knees give in and he stumbles under the shade of a nearby tree, he shivers collapses sucks in as much air as his lungs allow, except nothing can’t seem to make him full again, no air can reach where empty spaces lie inside him.

No matter how much he breathes, the air still feels too thin.

No matter how much he weeps, his screams won’t reach the one person who needs to hear.

“Keith!” Pidge’s voice is distant, a blur in all the madness, yet growing in strength, becoming real. “Keith, hang in there!”

He wants to, but there’s nothing to hold, Shiro’s hand is a ghost over his own—

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Pidge is saying, but why is she apologizing? “I never should have brought that up. It’s my fault, Keith, I’m sorry.”

Her hand is soothing on his back, but that’s all it is – on the surface. Nothing can reach him where he’s hurting inside.

“No, Pidge,” Keith gasps, struggles for air. Finally, his lungs remember how they’re supposed to function, and he relishes in the oxygen he takes – a temporary yet much needed fill. “I—”

How could he have been so blind? They’re best friends, like aged clocks attuned to each other’s every tick, yet why were they never in synch?

“—I went to New York.”

He’s finally saying it, after all these months, he’s finally telling another soul. Pidge leans closer, here eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern and slight confusion.

“New York,” Keith repeats, his breathing finding a steady rhythm. “I figured that’s where actors would aim for – promises and possibilities and dreams and whatever. Shiro’s a romantic, so I thought he’d definitely go there.”

Pidge nods, lets him know she’s listening.

“I had nothing on me but my wallet and my phone, except the battery died an hour after I arrived in the station. I had no fucking plans, just the goal of seeing him again.”

Pidge momentarily remembers Hunter asking her where Keith was – he had disappeared for two days without contacting anyone. They had thought he might have just been visiting the orphanage.

“I got lost the first day – slept somewhere in a park, which was stupid because it rained, but it didn’t matter. I had a feeling he was closer, and that made me feel less alone. The next day I went to explore theaters around the city, wandered around until I finally found him – because I just knew I would, I’ll always find him and I’ll always be drawn to him—”

He pauses, sucks in another breath as tears begin to cloud his vision again. He swallows the lump forming in his throat, and it hurts, hurts like every emotion he’s bottled up into a huge ugly pile inside him.

“I found him, and he looked so beautiful. Under the lights like that, as if he never left the stage at all – there he was.”

The next pause is a few ticks longer, as Keith stares into something distant, into a memory lost behind and beyond time, unreachable and tantalizing.

“I waited. I don’t know for how long, I wasn’t even sure if I had eaten more than a meal that day, but it was getting dark when he finally stepped outside. I can still remember my chest swelling with things I wanted to tell him, things I wanted him to tell me, things I needed us to hear. I swore I was going to be brave and reach out for him.”

Another round of silence. Pidge searches his face, sees that his eyes are lost inside that memory, as if replaying it over and over in his head, until she understands, realizes.

“… You didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Keith says, his voice a silent condolence for himself. “His friends – people I’ve never seen nor heard of before – came out after him, had their hands on his shoulder or on his arm. And then I thought – I just thought that maybe… I thought I always knew my place was beside him. Looking at them as they walked away laughing, I realized he’s got new people to rely on now, new people to take my place. He was smiling, Pidge, the way he always does. It had only been a month, but he’s moved on to newer people, Pidge. I didn’t belong under his arm anymore.”

More tears spill, waves of long suppressed grief and yearning falling in thick rivulets down his cheeks, staining the collar of his shirt.

“When I got back here, I broke it off with Hunter,” he says, his voice above a whisper. “I know it was cold of me to suddenly leave without a word, only to come back and break his heart, but I couldn’t let him wait another day, another week or a month just to do that in the end anyway. He doesn’t deserve that, and I don’t have any right to do that at all.”

Pidge nods solemnly, offering no word of advice or judgement. She stays and listens and lets him pour every painful chunk out, and he’s more than grateful for that.

“I miss him, Pidge. I miss him so, so bad.”

“I know,” she says, and lets him inside her arms. Little those arms may be, but they make him feel safe and cared for, reminding him of the soothing embrace of the nuns back in the orphanage.

“It was Shiro,” Pidge suddenly says when they let go. “The senior who co-wrote that play with me – it was Shiro.”

“… That’s another thing he didn’t tell me.”

“Maybe because the whole script _is_ the entire message, Keith.” Pidge says. “To you. And I bet it’s not only because I’m the co-author that he left it with me. I bet he wanted you to watch it.”

There’s another lump forming in his throat, and a fresh batch of tears threatening to gush out, except this time, they’re not accompanied by something dark and insidious eating away at him.

He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t have to, Pidge understands.

His heart is hammering madly in his ribcage like a prisoner banging on metal bars, which may just be an accurate analogy of what he feels – trapped in a cage, trapped in a prison of his own making.

Except today, there’s a fire rekindled, a voice heard, a heart half-mended.

Somewhere in New York, there’s another heartbeat sharing his own rhythm, whether they know it or not. Somewhere in New York, there’s another person with a deep yearning to find home, home that is only found in the arms of a particular other.

It’s a few more weeks before the play.

Keith waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp that wasn't too angsty now was it :')  
> also, if you need some fluff to heal you, [ here's](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7509889) [ some](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8141618/chapters/19125166) [ shameless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8141618/chapters/18661537) [ self-fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8141618/chapters/18691124) [ rec](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8141618/chapters/19254379%22) to soothe thy souls  
> /flies into the dark void


End file.
